


The Origin of Ethan Bello

by Epi115



Series: Ethan Bello and The Walking Dead [1]
Category: The Walking Dead
Genre: M/M, Major Original Character(s), Male Slash, Negan (Walking Dead) Being an Asshole, Negan Being Negan (Walking Dead), The Hilltop (Walking Dead)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-04-07
Updated: 2019-04-07
Packaged: 2020-01-06 01:58:37
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,670
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18378605
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Epi115/pseuds/Epi115
Summary: Ethan Bello is a hot mess. His family is nonexistent, he’s an alcoholic, and he was just discharged from the army; his life couldn’t possibly get any messier.Well...until he met Negan and the end of the world happened.





	The Origin of Ethan Bello

**Author's Note:**

> WARNING
> 
> Mentions of alcohol abuse, the war in Afghanistan, Talibans, blood, gore, physical abuse, torture, rape. This is a heavy story, an most origin stories are. Do NOT read if you are under 18. 
> 
> I own Ethan Bello, his origin story, and everything about him. I do NOT own anything within The Walking Dead universe, show, or comic book series. I am not affiliated with AMC in any way.

“Private Bello...is the target in sight?”

Ethan stayed silent for a long moment after the voice in his ear stopped speaking. He could only hope Sergeant Bennett had told the new corporal to stay silent. 

“He’s in my scope, sir. Take the shot?” Ethan murmured, following the Taliban’s moments with his sniper. It was a beautiful horror to watch him move around; seeing the enemy’s last moments gave Ethan a thrill. Hearing their voices, knowing what evil was coming from their mouths would soon be eradicated...it was Ethan’s drug of choice. 

“Take the shot.”

“Command confir-“ Ethan stopped in place, his finger hovering on the trigger.  _ I can’t do it now… _ “Sir, I can’t take the shot.”

The anger in Sergeant Bennett’s voice was clear. “Why not?!”

“He’s...he’s got a gun to Private Joan’s head. And he’s looking at-“ Ethan gasped, covering his head as the building he was perched on exploded underneath him. Desperately, he reached for his gun, grabbing it and bringing it with him as he fell through the ceiling. Ethan coughed hard, tears springing to his eyes from the stinging feeling of concrete dust in his lungs.

“Private Bello?! Come in, Bello! What the hell happened?!”

“They looked over at where our group was hiding,” Ethan took a moment to cough once more, “They must’ve known somehow. I’ll go look for the rest of us.”

As he stood up, Ethan frowned to himself, deep in thought. There was no way they could’ve known, unless they had a spy among them, which was decently unlikely. Did anyone talk about this over the phone? The enemy would probably be able to wiretap the phones, but-

          Ethan’s thoughts ended when his eyes truly focused on his command group; or at least what was left of his command group. It was hard to tell which body part was which...the grenade had completely torn the five men apart. Blood and internal organ scraps decorated the ceiling and walls, giving the illusion of a morbid, maroon mural. Scraps of material from their uniforms littered the floor, the green and tan camouflage turned brown from being drenched in blood and scattered with bone scraps. 

Ethan stumbled back, pale as a ghost before turning and retching violently on a slab of uprooted stone floor.  _ I should’ve taken the shot. I shouldn’t have hesitated. This is my fault. I should’ve taken the shot.  _

“Private Bello, any survivors?” 

His sergeant’s voice snapped Ethan out of his shock, triggering another round of vomiting. The smell of burnt skin and blood, along with the burning stench of gunpowder and lead, stained Ethan’s nose. Those were his brothers...that smell was what remained of the men he’d grown to care for as family. 

“N-no survivors, Sergeant,” Ethan rasped out, “I’m it.”

When Ethan got back to base, it was madness. Someone had wiretapped the phones they had been using. That explained how the enemy knew about the position of Command Group 2, and how they were able to blow up the ruined building they hid in. Despite the chaos, everyone stopped what they were doing when the young sniper walked in. The boy was barely 18, and he had already seen as much as the veterans they revered so much. Sergeant Bennett was the first to walk up to Ethan, putting a hand on his shoulder. “Bello? Stand down, Private, you alright?”

          The lack of emotion on Ethan’s face worried Bennett. The boy looked traumatized, haunted, reminding him of the look in his father’s eyes whenever he recounted his stories of his time in Vietnam. He’d be keeping an eye on Bello. 

“I’m bleeding, sir.”

Sergeant Bennett blinked. The words were so quiet, he wasn’t even sure if Ethan had spoken. “W-Wait,  _ what _ ?!”

Ethan nodded minutely, and it was only then that Bennett noticed Ethan’s hands resting oddly over his stomach. “I believe it’s shrapnel from the grenade. That or building rubble, sir.” Ethan stumbled forward slightly, his eyes glazed with a mix of shock and pain. Sergeant Bennett quickly grabbed Ethan as he pitched forward, the pain and emotional agony finally getting the best of him. 

“Get the medics, quick! He needs an operation, we need to save this kid!”

—————————————

Ethan stared at the bottom of his glass, three years later, with the sound of gunfire still echoing around his brain. He was four glasses of whiskey in—he needed eight to make the nightmares stop for the night.  _ But did I have shots, too?  _ He looked to the side of him. There was a shot glass, but at this rate, he was too drunk to tell, let alone care, if it was his.

“Honorable discharge” they called it. “Wounded Veteran” was his title now. There was nothing honorable about hesitating, nothing glorious about night terrors that made the others pin him to the bed so he didn’t hurt himself. People on the streets hear he’s a “vet” and the gape at him I’m reverence. He wished that they’d stop. He wasn’t a hero for getting his brothers blown up. 

Ethan held his hand up, and the bartender immediately went to get his drink. That should say something...when the bartender knows your drink, you’ve either had too many or come here too often. Or both, in Ethan’s case. 

“What’s that? Number twenty?”

_ Oh, someone’s in a fight picking mood.  _ Ethan turned to look at the smirking man beside him. He looked about forty, with his black hair peppered with gray here and there. He was clean-shaven, tall, and intimidating, and his onyx eyes had a taunting look in them as he nursed his own glass. “Number five. Fuck off.”

The man let out a low chuckle. “I’m sorry, kid. I didn’t mean to offend you,” he took a sip of his drink, his eyes never leaving Ethan, “But you’re drinking like you’ve seen too much. That or you’re about to. So which is it?”

“Is it really any of your business?” 

“Shit, I’m fucking curious. Enlighten me.”

Ethan sighed, nodding in thanks when his drink arrived. “I served in Afghanistan. Not for long, but...long enough.”

The man stared at him. “Jesus fuck...and how old are you? Like 22? That’s fucking crazy. What did you do?”

Ethan furrowed his brows. The lack of reverence, although welcomed, was strange. This was a new reaction. “Um...I was a sniper. In the army. I got stabbed,” Ethan snorted bitterly, “By grenade shrapnel. They sent me home a week after the surgery, never got to see more missions through.”

“What was the reason for sending you home? Was it just for the injury?”

The flashbacks of those countless post-operation nights ran through Ethan’s head at the question. Private Smith and Jackson holding his arms down to the hospital bed , as Corporal Sanders went to get Sergeant Bennett, who in turn went to get the first aid kit at seeing what Ethan had done to his face and neck in his sleep. “I hurt myself. Badly. It was an every night thing, for the whole week I was supposed to be healing. 

“The terrors I had were vivid. I didn’t sleep, I didn’t eat at all. And one night, the last night in the hospital, it got to me. And I almost didn’t wake up, I’d scratched my wrists and neck to hell. When I did wake up, there was blood  _ everywhere. _ ” Ethan sighed, rubbing his face wearily.

“They diagnosed me, those doctors. Post Traumatic Stress Disorder, from a mission where I saw too much. The terrors were debilitating...and after the surgery, they figured I wasn’t able to do more. Especially not after that little incident.”

The man’s face changed as Ethan told his story, turning from simple curiosity to a somber frown. “Nothing fucking helps, does it? That’s why you’re motherfucking knee deep in alcohol.” When Ethan nodded, the man scoffed. “I’ve met one therapist who helped, and he’s a goddamn high school counselor. One of my closest friends, honestly. The rest I’ve met are goddamn assholes who don’t know which end they shit from.” He shook his head. “Unless they’ve been through the same shit as you, they have no fucking idea what shit you’re going through. And they have no idea what will fucking help.”

Ethan stared at the stranger. He hit the nail right in the head. “So...do you know what I’ve been through, then?”

The stranger shook his head. “ _ Fuck  _ no. Not at all. But I’m going through some of my own shit right now. I understand to a point.” His lips twitched, a bittersweet half smile. “Hell, no one except another vet could understand your demons.”

Ethan’s drink sat forgotten as he quietly asked, “Who are you?”

He grinned. “I’m Negan. Let me help you.”

—————————————  
  


Ethan sat up in bed, holding back a groan of pain. Joint pain, yet again. There’d be no falling back asleep now. Carefully and stiffly, he swung his legs out of bed, watching Jesus to make sure he didn’t stir at the movement.

_ Was all this worth it? _

He asked himself that daily. When his badly healed breaks pained him and made it hard to walk, when he gets stared at for his scarred and mutilated face...was all that torture worth it? The answer was always the same--a hard, definite yes. He wouldn’t trade his time with Jesus at Hilltop for anything.

Ethan flicked the lights on in the bathroom and stared into the mirror. The burns from the iron had healed over, finally, leaving behind raised scars and bumps Rick’s little girl liked to trace. Every time she saw him, it was a wordless exchange; she’d hold up her arms, Ethan would pick her up, and she’d spend a good half hour tracing his face in curiousity. Daryl must’ve told her not to mention it, because she never asked him why his face was different from everyone else’s. The gesture was appreciated, especially considering Ethan had shot him when they first met.

Ethan adjusted his stance, closing his eyes as pain shot through his leg. Behind his eyelids, he could vividly remember the sight of Negan in that truck, speeding towards him with fury in his eyes. He could almost hear the sound of the stakes being hammered into his palms...and he could hear Jesus, screaming beside him and pleading for Negan to allow him to stop. He could hear Jesus, sobbing as he watched Ethan scream and moan in agony as he was forced to thrust inside him. Ethan sighed. It was a long time before Jesus accepted the fact that Ethan’s broken state wasn’t his fault. 

“You should be mad,” Jesus had said, his voice thick with held tears, “I hurt you even further.” Ethan had shaken his head, staring at his boyfriend, trying to show him that none of this was his fault.

“You didn’t want to assault me like that. It wasn’t your idea, you were forced to. I know that no matter the circumstances, you would never in a million years hurt me willingly.”

In a way, Ethan suspected that Jesus still blamed himself. There was always a look in his eyes when he saw Ethan limping, and despite Ethan’s musings, he could never quite decipher it. He hated the fact that despite his efforts, Jesus still blamed himself for Negan’s actions.

“What hurts tonight?”

Ethan looked over at his lover, who stood in the doorway with a concerned look on his face. “Just my legs. It’ll pass, love, don’t you worry.” Leaning against the sink, Ethan held his arms out for Jesus. He smiled fondly as Jesus leaned into his chest, and it grew brighter as he felt he stress leave his body. “What about you? You’re not in pain, are you?” Jesus shook his head, tracing his fingers on Ethan’s chest. 

“I told you, it’s been healed longer than you have. I’m up because you weren’t in bed with me.” Jesus buries his face to Ethan’s chest, pressing a kiss over his heart. “I got worried.”

Ethan sighed, rubbing his fingers through Jesus’ long locks. “It’s the usual shit, love. Just joint problems, phantom pain. Nothing that can be helped.”

“I’m sorry.”

Ethan swallowed thick. There it was. The apology that carried multiple meanings; the apology that held a heavy burden. ‘I’m sorry that you’re in pain, I’m sorry that you don’t sleep, I’m sorry that I caused it.’ “Don’t apologize, alright? It’s all part of the healing. I’m sure it’ll go away in another few months, like my wound from the war.” Jesus smiled up at him, and Ethan swore time stopped in that moment. 

“As long as you’re sure. I’m sure we could find some Vicodin for you, we can look on our next raid.” 

“No, love, you need to focus on pickup.” Ethan kissed his lover’s forehead, making the latter flush. “Vicodin clouds my mind, anyway. Dulls my senses. I gotta stay sharp, especially when I’m shooting.” 

Jesus huffed. “I’d rather you not shoot while you’re healing. Your gun kicks, it’ll hurt your shoulder!”

Ethan chuckled. It was nice to have someone care about his well-being for once. “I have no target, love. I’m useless for now, anyway, at least until the pain stops,” He stroked Jesus’ cheek, smiling affectionately, “I’m happy to just spend my time in peace, with you.”

Jesus gave a coy, loving smile. “Them come back to bed. There’s a massage waiting for you.”

_ Hell yeah. It was all worth it.  _

—————————————

“You’re dead. He killed you! I told him to fuck you, and he killed you!”

Ethan raised his chin defiantly as he stared down his old father figure, who now resided in an Alexandrian holding cell. “Yeah, I  _ almost  _ was. But luckily for me, I have people here who  _ genuinely  _ care about me.” He shook his head. “Jesus didn’t almost kill me.  _ You  _ did.”

“I didn’t want to!” Negan glared at him. “You betrayed me! That was all deserved on your part!”

Ethan stared at Negan, just taking him in. He brought his sniper along...surely Rick wouldn’t fault him for shooting the bastard right between the eyes? “I fell in love,” Ethan’s tone grew dark, “I fell in  _ love.  _ I never betrayed you. No sane person would do the shit you’ve done! Let alone to their adopted son, leaving him crippled for the rest of his bloody life!” Ethan tightened his grip on his cane, knuckles turning white with the force of his anger. 

“I saved your life! You owe me! You’d have been dead from fucking alcohol poisoning if I hadn’t picked your sorry ass up from the ground!”

Ethan quirked his lips and slowly started laughing. He couldn’t resist. With an amused smile, he quoted the words his lover said, all those months ago. “I don’t owe you anything, not anymore. I owe everything to them, now.” He jerked his head towards the door, where Rick and Michonne stood outside, waiting for Ethan to finish. He sighed. “As a former soldier, I’ll pay back my debt to you.” Ethan turned to the table, using his cane to limp over to his gun case. He smiled soft as he took out his sniper; it felt wonderful in his hands. 

“I’ve missed holding you, Baby,” Ethan murmured, “Time to come out of retirement, one last time.” He turned back to Negan, and in one fast movement he dropped his cane and pointed the gun at Negan’s head. Through the scope, he saw Negan pale. 

“Ethan...you wouldn’t. You’re right, I’m sorry. W-we were family, I shouldn’t have done any of that shit!” Ethan smiles wryly at Negan’s desperate tone, but his grip on the gun didn’t waver. 

“This is all deserved on your part.” He simply quoted, before pulling the trigger. After the gunshot sounded, his smile dropped and he stared emotionlessly at a gasping Negan, who had just realized the shot was a blank. “There. We’re even. A life for a life.”

————————————


End file.
